


Beautiful to Me

by Bryonia_Alba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryonia_Alba/pseuds/Bryonia_Alba
Summary: Neville’s still beautiful to Harry, despite the scars of war.





	Beautiful to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sunandsmut, 2006.

Harry walks into the kitchen, rubbing the last bit of sleepsand from his eyes. He sees that Neville has already been in here earlier, from the neatly folded copy of the _Daily Prophet_ resting on the table next to a half-empty cup of tea. The tea is still lukewarm, meaning he hasn’t missed Neville by much, no more than half an hour.

He’ll find Neville, later. He knows perfectly well where he is, but hasn’t wanted to intrude. Instead, he pours a bowl of cereal for himself and sits down to his own breakfast, reading the newspaper headlines, noting that Rodolphus Lestrange had been sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss. Harry drinks the rest of Neville’s tea with his breakfast. Neville won’t mind; he’ll only make another pot when no one is watching.

Finishing the last bite of cereal, Harry rinses out both his bowl and Neville’s teacup and puts them away. He spends a few minutes tidying the kitchen before going to find Neville.

He’s in the greenhouse, as Harry knew he would be. It is where he’s spent his days and evenings since Harry brought him home from St Mungo’s and back to Longbottom Manor, the home they’ve shared ever since Neville’s grandmother and both parents died during the last few months of the war and he’d become its owner in his own right.

Sitting quietly on a nearby workbench, Harry watches Neville tend his plants, the scarred fingers of his left hand working with stiff clumsiness compared to the deft touch of his other hand. He can hear Neville muttering his frustration under his breath as he works.

Harry clears his throat, making his presence known. Neville jumps, but doesn’t look up from the flowerpot before him.

“Harry. You startled me.”

“I didn’t know ghosts could startle,” Harry replies, rising from the workbench and crossing the short distance separating the two. “You’ve certainly been an excellent imitation of one.”

“You’ve known where to find me. It’s not my fault it took you a week.” Neville still doesn’t look up, concentrating on tamping down damp soil.

Harry kneels beside him, reaching out to cover Neville’s hand with his own. “That was before I realised I had a wraith for a housemate. You’ve been home for a week, and the only way I know someone else is living with me is because I find things lying about that I had nothing to do with, and the fact that sometimes your side of the bed is still warm when I wake up. Otherwise, I’d have to wonder.”

Neville waters the newly transplanted flower, his hand slipping from Harry’s so he can grasp the watering can. “So what brought you here?”

Waiting until Neville begins preparing another plant, Harry says, “I got an owl from Ron yesterday. He suggested we meet for drinks. Hermione will be there, too; and Luna and Ginny, and Susan and Justin, a few others. I thought we could both go.”

“I’d rather stay. You go on without me.”

“They’d love to see you. You’ve been missed.” Harry sits back on his heels, one hand lifting to brush over the stubble covering what he can see of Neville’s cheek. “They probably wouldn’t recognise you. Have you shaved at all since you came home?”

Neville snorts derisively. “The mediwitches did that for me in hospital. I’m more like to cut my throat if I tried it now.”

“Then I’ll do it for you until you get the hang of doing it yourself. Now, c’mon. I promised the others I’d bring you along. Ron reserved a corner spot, even.” Harry pulls the other man onto his feet, ignoring his protests. “You’ve nothing to worry about. You’ll be among friends.”

“Harry, they’ll _stare_ ,” Neville whispers uncomfortably, finally looking directly at him for the first time since coming home. “I don’t mean Ron and Hermione and the others. I mean, _others_. Strangers. They’ll stare.”

“Let them. They don’t matter.” Harry doesn’t flinch at the rough, thickened scar tissue covering the left side of Neville’s face from temple to cheekbone, the result of the last spell Bellatrix Lestrange had ever cast before meeting her death at the end of Neville’s wand. The spell had melted flesh like butter, claiming one eye in the process and scarring Neville’s hand as well when he’d tried to scrape the caustic slime away after killing his nemesis. His left eyelid has a permanent droop, a pale, lashless rivulet of skin that doesn’t blink.

He’d been offered a replacement eye much like Alastor Moody’s during his three months in hospital but had refused. Neville now wears a simple glass eye to replace the one he’d lost, brown like the other, impossible to tell which is real and which isn’t. Harry wishes they could have done the same for the rest of his face, but it had been all the Healers could do to prevent the damage from spreading, treating the ensuing infections when they arose, and keeping Neville as free from pain as possible while he healed.

He’s used to the scars now. So are their friends, some of whom have spent nearly as much time at Neville’s bedside following the battle as Harry. It isn’t _their_ stares Neville frets over, since they already know what to expect.

What Bellatrix has done in her final moments, permanently and irrevocably, is strip Neville of his anonymity. He, who has spent most of his life in the background, unseen and unnoticed, will now always be both, no matter where he goes. It is a cruel blow to a young man who had valued his privacy above all else.

“I can’t even cover it with a glamour,” Neville is saying now, sounding more distressed with each word. “They’ll still know it’s me; it was all over the _Prophet_ and the _Gazette_ and _Witch Weekly_ and Merlin knows how many other newspapers and magazines. They’ll _know_.”

“They don’t matter,” Harry says again, finally succeeding in uprooting Neville out of the greenhouse and into the back garden. “Just do what I do. Pretend they’re not there.”

“Easy for you to say,” Neville mutters, but he allows Harry to guide him back to the house and upstairs.

He sits down at the edge of the bathtub, watching as Harry fetches his shaving kit. Lathering Neville’s cheeks, chin and upper lip, Harry kneels between his legs, lifting the razor in his hand. “I’m going to cheat and use a Muggle razor,” he says, “otherwise I’ll be the one responsible for cutting throats, not you. I don’t know how you and Ron can stand using those straight-razors; they scare me!”

“Just takes practise like everything else,” Neville replies amiably, tilting his head back and exposing his throat to Harry’s ministrations. “I’ll relearn, eventually.”

Carefully, Harry scrapes the stubble away, green eyes narrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue protruding ever so slightly from between pursed lips. Neville doesn’t make a sound as Harry works, which isn’t surprising. He’s never been a talkative person, raising his voice only rarely.

“I think that’ll do.” Harry rinses the last traces of lather from Neville’s face with warm water, patting it dry himself even though Neville’s perfectly capable of doing that for himself. Before he can stop himself, he runs his knuckles over Neville’s freshly-shaven cheek, just below where the scar ends. “Smooth as a baby’s bum. You can do your own aftershave.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Neville touches his chin, fingers rubbing over the skin before smiling in approval.

He starts to rise, but Harry’s still kneeling between his legs, hand still stroking Neville’s cheek. Their gazes catch and hold; and Harry sees the sudden intensity, the longing in Neville’s one good eye as his fingers slide up to curl around Harry’s wrist.

“You’re overdue for a proper welcome home,” Harry whispers, rising from his kneeling position so that his face is level with Neville’s. “If you hadn’t been perfecting your imitation of the Ghost of Longbottom Manor…”

“We don’t have a ghost—“ Neville starts to reply, but his words are cut off by Harry’s lips on his, Harry’s tongue insinuating itself along his own; and he relaxes into the kiss with a small sigh of pleasure.

That sigh is all the permission Harry needs. He kisses Neville with a slow, thorough languor, one hand still caressing one cheek while the other braces against the bathtub for balance. Neville’s hands fall to his shoulders, kneading gently at first, pausing when Harry releases his mouth in favour of feathering more kisses across the bridge of his nose, along the curve of one eyebrow, until his lips brush against the facial scars themselves.

“Harry…” Neville tries to turn his head away, unable to repress a shudder.

“Too sensitive still?” Harry slows, but doesn’t stop entirely, his lips brushing over Neville’s temple.

“No, not that…it’s just…you can’t possibly…”

Harry draws back with a tiny smile. “I just did. And I’ll do it again.” His fingers cup Neville’s chin, forcing him to look at him directly. “I’ll do it as often as I have to, until you believe you’re still beautiful to me. I’d rather have you scarred and alive than unmarked and dead.” Just as quickly, it’s Harry’s turn to look away. “God, Nev, you don’t know how scared I was. You _can’t_ know. It was worse than facing Voldemort; I had to fight him not knowing if you were going to be all right. It was horrible.”

“Then don’t think about it.” Neville’s kiss this time is fierce, demanding that he forget what happened three months ago. “I’d rather think about this.”

Harry makes a muffled sound of agreement. It’s enough that Neville’s home, where he belongs. His hands find their way beneath Neville’s t-shirt, skating over warm skin, across belly and ribcage and chest, flicking over small nipples until they harden beneath his touch. Neville leans into the caress, silently asking for more; and Harry is more than happy to oblige, pulling at the tight nubs between his fingers until Neville’s breathing grows deeper and faster with arousal and the tiniest of moans escapes his parted lips.

“Harry…” Neville presses harder against him, so that Harry feels the solid length of his erection through his trousers, sending an answering spark of need racing through Harry’s body.

Releasing Neville’s nipples, Harry scrapes his nails down lightly over Neville’s chest and stomach until he reaches fabric again, denim this time. He unfastens Neville’s jeans with nimble, practised fingers before standing and pulling Neville up with him so he can push both trousers and pants past his hips until they bunch around his knees. Neville is fumbling at Harry’s trousers as well, until his hand is batted away and he’s backed against the bathroom sink.

“You first,” Harry says huskily. Before he can protest Harry sinks back onto his knees, cradling Neville’s hips in his palms and leaning forward to lick along the length of Neville’s cock in a long, uninterrupted swipe. Neville’s breath stutters in his throat, and Harry’s lips close over the tip, tongue swirling over the glans, probing delicately into the slit and tasting salt before engulfing him to the root, drawing hard, cheeks hollowing with the suction. He’s rewarded with a sharp cry and a hastily drawn inhalation from above as Neville’s hands dive into his hair and his hips thrust forward, driving as far into Harry’s mouth as far as he can go.

His hands grasp Neville more firmly, pinning him against the sink so he can’t move, drawing back slowly until only the head remains in his mouth before swallowing him back down, over and over again. His tongue drags along the underside vein, swirls over the hot, silky flesh in intricate patterns. Neville’s ragged gasps and desperate moans wash over him, spurring him on, the sounds making Harry’s cock twitch and harden.

Neville’s fingers weave more tightly through Harry’s hair, clenching and pulling, urging him on. He suckles gently, peering up through his lashes, seeing Neville’s half-closed eyes and open, panting mouth, and Harry lets Neville guide him, bobbing up and down his length, licking, sucking, teasing.

When Neville is completely incoherent, Harry devours him one last time, sucking hard and humming, the vibration making Neville’s keening moans rise in pitch, trying to buck beneath Harry pinioning hands against his hipbones. Harry can’t restrain his own moan at the sounds he pulls from Neville’s throat. He releases one hip, his hand slipping between Neville’s legs and back until he finds the tight pucker, stroking it gently until he can press the tip of one finger inside.

Neville thrusts forward with a loud cry, hands tugging almost painfully at Harry’s scalp. A moment later his cock spasms in Harry’s mouth, and he catches the first spurt as Neville comes in long, shuddering pulses, his entire body shaking with the force of his climax.

Harry thinks Neville has never looked more beautiful, when he’s caught in passion’s web and the outside world is the furthest thing from his mind. His hand wraps around his own cock, stroking and squeezing, desperately needing to come as well while Neville softens in his mouth and his breathing slows.

He nearly whimpers from the loss when Neville’s cock slides free from his lips, but then Neville’s kneeling as well, his hand closing around Harry’s, his mouth hot and wet and seeking Harry’s own. He kisses Harry with open abandon, fingers tightening around Harry’s as he strokes his cock.

“Let go, Harry,” Neville breathes between kisses, nipping at his bottom lip. “I want to see you let go and come for me. You’re close; I can tell. Let go…”

Harry does, spilling over their entwined hands, coating them with slick warmth, his head pressed against the curve of Neville’s shoulder as he quivers and jerks. Neville’s breath is warm and comforting against his cheek as he whispers, almost inaudibly, “You’re beautiful to me, too.”

Harry laughs, arms going around Neville and hugging him close, despite the fact that one hand is still sticky with semen. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Do we…do we have time for a shower before we meet with Ron and Hermione and the others?” Neville asks, his voice trembling slightly with anxiety.

“I thought you didn’t want to come with me.”

“The first time’s always the worst.” Neville shrugs one shoulder. “Besides, you’ll be with me, and it’s as you said. The – the others don’t matter. I have my friends.” He meets Harry’s questioning gaze, his own expression resolute. “Three months is a long time to be away.”

Harry nods solemnly, lips brushing across Neville’s. “It is.” He stands on unsteady legs, drawing Neville with him. “And to answer your question…yes, we have time for a shower and a change of clothes!”

They’re still late, as it turns out, but nobody seems to mind.


End file.
